


Kings and Pawns

by Amelia041223



Series: The krakens are Calling [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dragons, F/M, Poor Theon, battles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-06-06 10:21:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6749980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia041223/pseuds/Amelia041223
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle is not over. Theon, Jon, Daenerys, Stannis, and others must travel beyond the Wall to end the war against the dead once and for all. Unfortunately, Theon gets caught up in all of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End is Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Possible Theon fans in the world](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Possible+Theon+fans+in+the+world).



> Hello, I know it has been a very long break since my last part, but I am very lazy when it comes to writing. I hope you enjoy this, even though I am not a very good writer.

The Wall was weeping. Great tears slid down the precipice to lick the corpses scattered in the snow below. The Wall had never wept so much before, Theon thought, as he gazed at the melting structure from a distance. Only dragons could do that. It still shocked him, the tall, regal creatures had come, slithering through the sky, the sun gleaming off their scales, fire streaming from their mouths, turning the land beyond the Wall to ash. They had all run from the Wall, then, as it began to quake, and shudder, the breath of the sudden warmth beginning to melt the solid structure. Theon hoped the Wall would not fall, and crush them all as the ice sloughed from it's body.

Theon tore his gaze away, the sound of screaming, snarling dragons deafening in the afternoon calm. The dragons were terrifying, the monsters from stories, and yet they had saved them from a fate worse than death. Part of him wanted to see them up close, to touch the smoothness of their hides, and stroke their spiked heads. Perhaps he would have done so, once upon a time, as a dare, or merely in fascination of the creatures. Not anymore. Boys believed nothing could touch them, but grown men knew better. Therefore, only Tormund Giantsbane had dared enough to approach the towering beasts. The men, half crazed with adrenalin and fear from the earlier moments of the day, had jeered and laughed, egging him on. He only managed to be within two feet of the creatures, before he was forced back as they melted the snow in front of him with one breath. Theon in turn, had avoided the fearsome creatures, slightly afraid of their massive, dominating structures, and, of course, their fiery breath. Perhaps he would burn after all, he thought, perhaps one of the beasts would grow hungry, or angry when he chanced to be walking by, and they would put an end to his miserable life at last. He would be gone, nothing more than a charred, smoking corpse like the ones that lay beyond the Wall.

A figure approached him tentatively, and Theon instinctively reached for the sword at his belt, forgetting it was merely a heavy, cold piece of steel, no longer wreathed in the fire and magic that had given him strength, and had made him whole, warming his body. He felt a longing for the feeling to appear once more. He had nearly fallen when the fire had burnt out, taking his strength and spirit with it. When the figure came within distinguishable view, he sighed with relief, and smiled.

'Jeyne!' he screamed, and lunged towards her, stumbling over stunted toes. The girl wrapped her arms around his skinny frame, and buried her head in his shoulder, weeping once more, like the Wall, he thought distantly.  
'I thought you were dead,' she sobbed, 'I thought you would die.'

'So did I,' Theon conceded. She smiled faintly, her soft lips stretched taught, the skin cracked and dry. The few remaining strands of strength he had been clinging to suddenly disappeared as he slumped into her arms, nearly falling. Jeyne gasped in surprise, but managed to help him to his feet oncemore. Overcome with exhaustion, he let her guide him across the yard while leaning slightly on her shoulder. As they traveled through the snow together, Theon intensely enjoying Jeyne's pleasant company, just knowing she was safe, they came upon the entrance to the main hall. Loud voices of relaxed merriment stole from the open doors as more men entered to lay claim to a hot bowl of stew, and the warmth of the fire in the hearth. 

Cautiously, they made their way through the crowd, and together found a nonediscript corner to sit, side by side. Two bowls of steaming stew, extra thick due to the glorious victory, were placed delicately in front if them, and they graciously dug into their portions. As the warm liquid slipped down his throat, Theon remebered how hungry he really was, and smiled as the food settled comfortably in his stomach.

Once he had finished his bowl, the last few drops licked from his spoon, he began to notice who were exactly in the room. At the high table sat Jon, and Bran, as well as Stannis Baratheon, his Hand, the knight who had helped him in his trial, the red priestess eyeing the room with a cool demeanour, and the silver lady. She was the greatest mystery of all, as she was the one who had come, flying on her dragon, the sun flashing in her hair, and now she sat at the table, on the ither side of Jon, far from Stannis. A palpable tension was in the air, and the lady and Stannis seemed to trade looks of distaste and even anger for the other.

Jon called for order, and a black brother smashed their goblet repeatedly on the table. Soon th hall fell silent, and the lady stood. What was even more curious about her was she wore no furs, much like the red woman, and she seemed to feel no chill in the air.  
'My name is Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen,' she announced, her voice fierce, though delicate. Instant murmurs resounded through the hall, urgent mutterings whispered at every table. Theon himself felt his heart jump unexpectedly in his throat at the recollection of the name. The last Targaryen, who had come flying in on her dragons to seek the Iron Throne, only, she was at the wrong end of the world. Stannis was furious, his jaw edging back and forth, no doubt grinding his teeth to granules. The brother of the usurper who had destroyed her family was seated at the same table as her. Theon wondered vagely how Jon could have possibly managed it, or perhaps each was too proud to be neglected at the high table.

'I have come from Essos,' she continued, 'to lay my claim to the Iron Throne, though instead a wind has pulled me north, a place I did not intend to go, and yet it was here I was most needed.'  
'Stannis is the rightful king,' the red woman stated. The hall instantly quietened as the two woman gazed at one another. 'Your pretender has no true claim to the Throne, as kin to the man who slaughtered my family, and stole their crown,' she said, rage accompanying each word with a cold, harsh edge. Silence rang heavy in the hall, no one daring to draw a single breath.

One small, nearly forgotten part of Theon sniggered at the draw of power, the match between politics. It was nearly comical how uneasy and tense the situation was; a king and a queen both battling for the Throne, though, unfortunately one of them happened to be in possession of three incredibly powerful dragons. The small part of Theon was instantly strangled, snuffed out, as he reminded himself of who he was, and how much power the two claimers held. Stannis would have gladly chopped his head off, and the other didn't know enough to wish him ill, though he was sure if she did, he would be nothing but ash. Murdering two boys was the crime that haunted him every day, the ghost attached to his shadow, and there was nothing to jape at. He reminded himself of the last time he smiled, or laughed with true mirth, and it had been with fuller teeth. Know what price it is to pay for laughter, and gaiety. He gently rubbed the jagged stumps on his hands, as they ached and itched fiercely beneath his gloves.

In the end it was Jon who broke the terse silence, speaking above their heated stares, who were in turn directed at him.

'I don't have time for southerner's squabbles,' he said solemnly, 'winter is here, and the dead have attacked, don't you see?'

'Aye, they attacked, and now they are dead again, thanks to this woman's dragons,' Stannis interjected. 'The fight is done, and now, I mean to claim my rights in the south, and be done with this Targaryen,' the word was spoken with malice laced along it's spine.

'The fight is not done,' a small voice called from one of the far tables. Theon glanced around in curiosity, but immediately knew who had spoken. There was a slight screeching sound as Jojen Reed pushed his chair back to stand. Jon gazed at him meaningfully.

'What do you mean, boy?' he asked. Reed strode easily towards the dais, his sister Meera close in tow.

'My name is Jojen Reed, this is my sister, Meera,' the boy introduced, 'Bran knows what we speak of. There is a larger army, far north, and a castle made of ice. There you will find the Night's King.' Jon stared at him in disbelief.

'What is this Knight's King?' he demanded, urgency rising in his voice. 'It is the king of the White Walkers,' Jojen replied calmly, 'and he means to be king of more than just that. He meant for this raiding party to open the gates to the south so he may easily stride in a conquer all of Westeros, but, unexpectedly, we prevailed. If we wait for much longer, he will send another army to kill us all.' Hysterics erupted in the hall, men shouting to be heard, or cry out in fear. How could they possibly survive another attack? Theon felt his whole body go numb with fear. Beside him, Jeyne gasped, and buried her head in his shoulder. Not again, it could not happen again. But, perhaps this creature did not yet know of the dragons? Perhaps they could keep the realm safe... but for how long? If this thing had the power to raise the dead, if it were the one who ruled the White Walkers, surely it had untold powers that could potentially destroy the dragons? Theon shuddered at the thought, and held Jeyne close, gentle caressing her shoulder. She would make it, as she always has, she has to. Theon was determined to never let her go again.

'What do we do, then, boy?' Jon asked, eyeing him carefully. 'Bran knows what must be done,' Jojen replied. All eyes turned to Bran, who nodded resolutely.

'Bran?' Jon regarded his little brother with concern, and intrigue. Bran cleared his throat.

'The 3 eyed crow, the one who I was with,' Bran said to Jon, though his voice resonated throughout the room, 'he knew this day would come, for us to kill the Night's King, to root him out of his castle, and end this war once and for all.' Astounded silence met this announcement, and Bran continued. 'He gave me the direction to go, how to get there, everything, but I cannot go, nor can I access this information that has been given to me.' Jon's brow furrowed. 'What do you mean?'

Bran took a deep breath. 'It means that I have to pass it on to someone else. I have no legs, so I could not make the journey, but if I gave this information to someone else, they would be able to lead you across the snows and into the castle.' Theon's blood ran cold. They would waltz so willingly into the lion's jaws? It was nearly certain that anyone who would go on this venture would not return. Men argued once more, yelling, quarreling. Jon waited until it had receded, then turned to his brother once more.

'I will go beyond the Wall for this King,' he announced, 'Bran, you can transfer your burden to me.' Bran shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. 'Please Jon, don't go,' he begged, unwilling to lose his brother so soon after regaining him. 'It can't be you, I can't give it to you,' he said sadly. 'Of course you can,' Jon insisted, 'I'll come back, I promise.'

'You don't understand,' Bran pressed, 'it can't be you. It is a dangerous, delicate process, and it can damage a person's mind, and I can't damage yours. I don't want to lose you, Jon,' Bran stammered. Jon froze for a few seconds. 'I will still go, I cannot let my brother's go without me,' he said quietly. Jon rose slowly to his feet to openly address the room at large.

'Men,' he said, 'I am to journey on this quest, but I cannot ask you all to do the same. Some will have to stay to guard Castle Black in my stead. I name Edd, to watch the castle in my leave,' he nodded to the black brother, who solemnly nodded back. 'Those who would follow me, speak.'

For a moment, no one spoke, or stepped forward, for it was surely a venture no one could possibly return from, alive at least. Then Tormund Giantsbane rose from his chair, and laid his battle axe on the table in plain view, accompanied by three men who leaped to their feet in quick succession. One of them Theon recognized as the man who had pulled Jon from him when he held a knife to his throat. Another was the man who had left with Bran on his horse, only to be forced to return by Coldhands. 'I will follow you, Crow,' he said gruffly, 'and I will return, blue eyed or not, for all the rest of you fuckin' cowards.'

'I too, will come, as will my men,' said Stannis, ignoring the comment. 'Though Melisandre will stay behind, to guard the castle against the dead.' Jon acknowledged his offer. Then the silver queen rose from her chair. 'I will take my dragons with me on this mission to rid the land of death. I follow,' she said graciously. Soon, the majority of the Wildlings and the Night's Watch volunteered their own swords and misshapen axes, with only a handful left to man the Wall. If this expedition failed, the realm failed. It was a gamble, a vast one, but Jon was still willing to make it. 'There's is still one matter to discuss,' Jon continued, 'who is to volunteer their mind to Bran's magic?' No one spoke for a moment, then one voice resonated from the back of the hall.

'I'll do it.'

Every eye turned to face Theon, who rose slowly to his feet, his knees shaking slightly under the attention. Whenever people were interested in him, it was to hurt him. But Jon wouldn't hurt me, he thought, he won't hurt me now I've brought Bran. Jeyne gasped, and pulled urgently on his arm.

'Don't do this, Theon,' she pleaded, 'please, you'll die.' Theon turned to face her, and gently tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. 'I have to, I've been no use to anyone alive, perhaps this is my chance.' She shook her head. 'You've been a use to me,' she whispered. He smiled slightly, but turned resolutely to face the inquisitive audience.

'You will do this?' Jon asked, surprised. Theon nodded. 'I am not afraid of the consequences and risks. This is my chance to be of use,' he responded. Most of the room did not know him, and laughed softly at his statement, but Tormund lumbered up to him, and clasped him heavily by the shoulder, causing Theon's knees to buckle.

'You will do this, boy?' he said, loud enough for all to hear. There were some mutterings, and Theon felt he heard the word "boy?" uttered more than once. They still thought I was an old man, Theon thought, laughing inwardly. 'I saw you during our last battle, lad,' Tormund continued, 'you weren't useless at all.' Theon's heart gave a small stutter at the unexpected praise. 'Thank you,' he said meaningfully. Then, Tormund boosted him forward, nearly pitching him to the ground, and Theon limped to the front of the hall, harsh murmurings following behind. He kneeled shakily before the high table. 'I will do this,' he said. Jon nodded, and turned to Bran, who was lifted from his seat by Hodor, and brought before Theon. Hodor kneeled, and Bran placed his hands on Theon's head, then slumped backwards into Hodor's embrace, his eyes white and vacant. Theon had a brief moment to close his eyes, and flinched. Someone was in there. Someone was inside him, prodding. Theon squirmed, but Bran's grip was vice like. They had to get out! Get out! They would find things in there, things he did not want to be found.

Memories swelled to the front of his mind, painful ones, Robb laughing in the yard, Towers falling in a storm, waves crashing against the walls, then, Winterfell. No, NO! Don't go there, please don't... but it was too late. Small heads dipped in tar... I'm sorry, I'm sorry... then, darkness. Only, there was a figure. Light flashed on a knife, and Theon backed against the wall, a stone wall, slick, and coated in grime, and blood. Please, not another finger, please, no... Reek, my name is Reek...I swear... Tears welled beneath Theon's eyes, and began to stream down his cheeks. Please, stop... Snow caked his boots, as the weirwood whispered his name on the wind...Theon... Theon... 'Theon!'

'No!' Theon pulled wildly away, his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest. Ramsay, he was there, listening, laughing, no, not again, please, I'll be good, please, my name is Reek, please, stop... His eyes fluttered open, and met Bran's. They were... frightened. He gazed at Theon, a tear welling behind his eye. 'That was horrible,' he whispered. Silence echoed in the room. Theon backed away, rising shakily to his feet, the memories still fresh in his mind. Every eye was focused on him. Every face held mixed expressions of confusion, concern, and even pity. They think I have lost my mind, he thought. Then he noticed the faces at the high table. The queen seemed intrigued and mildly concerned, Stannis remained carefully blank, and Jon... Jon was staring hard at him.

'Greyjoy, what happened? Are you all right?' he said solemnly, seriously. Theon stood, confused, and shaking slightly. It was then that he realized that he had screamed most of his thoughts during the process aloud. Embarrassment and shame hit him like a steel rod, and he instinctively fell to one knee, avoiding Jon's eyes. 'I, I think,' he stammered, 'I...' Then he felt it, washing over him like a cool breeze, a warm smoothness running through his veins. He relaxed, and closed his eyes. He could suddenly feel, in the back of his mind, a place he needed to be. And he knew exactly how to get there. The sensation was strong, and he would have fled from the room to fly across the snowy lands in that moment, if it weren't for Jon's persistent voice, calling him from his reverie.

'Greyjoy, what is it?' he pressed. Theon once again opened his eye, an expression of calm on his face, the soft, comfortable feeling still prominent in his mind, causing all his hated memories to flee to the far corners his conscience, which was where he wished them to be. 'I know where to go,' he said confidently. It was in that moment, that the feeling fled, and he sagged to the floor, the sadness flooding to the front of his mind, the fear, the hopelessness. Theon groaned, and hid his face in his hands, muttering frantically under his breath.

'Theon,' he whispered, 'my name is Theon, please, I know my name, please don't take it away...' Rough hands grabbed at his thin shoulders, and pulled him to his feet, nearly picking him clean off the ground. Tears streamed down Theon's face, as he gasped and choked for breath between suppressed sobs. Thick arms wrapped around his torso, and pulled him close, all the while, dragging him out the room. Why was someone holding him? Who...

The cold air hit him fiercely, nearly freezing the tears on his sunken cheeks. The man holding him turned to face him, and Theon slowly looked up into the uncharacteristically gentle face of Tormund Giantsbane.

'You are a strange boy,' he said, 'what was all that about? Who are you?' Theon didn't answer. 'You was yellin' all sorts o' strange things about knives, and trees, then you was pleadin', and beggin' for mercy, and you said you're name was reek, or somethin'. Then you wen't screaming you're name all over the place.' Theon lowered his gaze, more tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He shook his head. 'You shouldn't be comin' with us,' Tormund stated, 'you don't look so good.' Then he slapped Theon on the shoulder, and trudged off somberly. Theon was left alone in the snow, shivering, and attempting to force the horrifying thoughts from his mind, to no avail. There was no going back now, he knew. He had to go with them into the true north, though he trembled at the thought. He was weak, he was useless, but he was needed. It was a strange feeling, to be needed, and he pondered it as he wrapped his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Theon was about to leave, when a figure strutted from the hall, the door closing rapidly behind them.

It was Jon. Theon stared as he walked surly towards him, his longsword swinging at his belt. He stopped when he reached him, and looked at him uncertainly. Theon gently took a step back.

'What happened to you, Greyjoy?' he asked at last, more curious than concerned. It was fair, Jon should have beheaded him as soon as he set foot in Castle Black. Instead, after having attempted to slit his throat, he had calmed, and let him live. Theon bit his lip. 'I was remembering,' he said quietly, 'Bran,he...he went inside my head, rooting out all my, my memories.' He lowered his head. Jon continued to stare at him. 'What happened?' He repeated. Theon lifted his gaze, then slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his stark white hair, as it clashed against the pure shade of the snow. It fell in lanky grey strands, a contrast to its original black. This time it was Jon who took a step back.

'Theon...' He breathed, his eyes widening, 'What...?' Theon took a deap lungful of air, then responded slowly.

'I... After Winterfell, I was captured by Ramsay Bolton...he...he burned the castle,' he stammered, 'I don't expect you to believe any of this, but...' Jon's piercing gaze persisted. 'He tortured me, in more ways than one.' Theon carefully removed his gloves, exposing his jagged stumps to the bitter cold. Jon's eyes widened slightly at the sight, but his exoression did not change.

'You captured my home,' he said, 'you took it, and killed many of the people I grew up with. We grew up with. I thought you had killed my half brothers, but no, they were just some farm boys,' Jon advanced threateningly. 'You just killed two poor little orphans,' he said, his face mere inches from Theon's, 'I'm afraid you brought this on yourself, and I could never feel pity for you.' Theon's eyes rose to meet his. 'I know,' he replied calmly, 'I have cursed myself everyday, wondering why, why am I still breathing? I have done horrible things... I betrayed Robb...I killed... I know I should be dead, and I would welcome it, I would tell you as your right to remove my head now, and be done with my pathetic existence...' Theon continued solemnly, 'but now I'm afraid that you need me. I am useless, aye, a pitiful existence, but I have reaped for my sins. I know it is not enough, but in this moment, I believe I am needed. Not wanted, that is not a phrase I am too familiar with, but truly needed, if only for the map Bran has given me. I am not a hero, like you or Robb were destined to be, but I can help.' Silence greeted his speech, then Jon spoke shook his head.

'Something truly terrible must have happened to you, Greyjoy, for the Theon I know would never speak this way, all grim, and regretful,' he said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, 'I hated your smile.' Theon nearly grinned, but instead bowed his head submissively, remembering the harsh blow of Ramsay's hammer in his mouth, his fist. 'He did not either,' he muttered softly. Jon then looked at him once more, sadness creeping into his expression. 'Gods, Greyjoy, I do not know what to think of you.' Then he left in a swirl of snow. 'We leave tomorrow at day break,' he called over his shoulder.

Theon sighed as he was once more left alone in the snow, and shuddered, though it had nothing to do with the cold. I do not know what to think of myself either, he thought bemusedly.

Perhaps someday I'll know.


	2. A Walk in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tearful goodbyes, more trudging through the snow, with danger at every corner, because it's the North. Theon is in peril and not just from the beasts that walk beyond the Wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I will try to make it a bit more eventful.

'Please, Theon, you don't have to do this,' Jeyne begged, tears welling in her eyes. Theon held her in his arms, surveying each line of her face. He didn't want to forget, he wanted to remember her when he died, for he was certain he would. Theon gently wiped a tear from her cheek with the use of his thumb, and she didn't shudder with his maimed hand pressed against her face. She was the most amount of true affection he had ever had, he came to realize. Robb, indeed, they had shared a brotherly relation, but Jeyne... she cared for him in a way that was nearly stranger to him. And he felt emotion and guardianship for her. As he gazed into her doe brown eyes, filled with sadness, he felt a strong urge to forget the journey, and simply stay for her, to protect her, and to feel not so quite alone as he did.

'I'm sorry, lady Arya,' again he persisted with the guise, 'but I must go. I promise you, I will try everything in my power to return to you.' They were alone behind a stone wall shielding them from the bitter cold, but he couldn't risk being overheard, and such a passionate parting would never be able to take place in front of the public eye. Certainly not in front of Jon Snow. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his ear.  
'Call me Jeyne, please, just this once,' she whispered, 'I may never look upon you again.' Theon bit his lip, then held her close.  
'Your name is Jeyne Poole, as mine is Theon Greyjoy,' he said softly, 'I wish to return...' His voice broke, if only for you, he added silently, longing weighing heavy in his heart, but he knew he could not stay. For once he was needed. But what would happen to her while Jon and himself are not present to protect her? Then he knew.  
'Come, my lady,' he said, 'it is time for you to bid your brother farewell.' They gently parted from each other's embrace, and Theon led her from their hiding place into the harsh rays of sunlight. A large army of men had gathered in front of the gate, waiting impatiently. There was no sign of the silver queen and her dragons, so Theon supposed she had already left beyond the Wall. If only the castle were not hidden, then her dragons would have been excellent scouts, but it appeared it was necessary to have the mapping, and the feeling that was gifted to him.

Jeyne looked into his eyes one last time, then left his side as Jon approached, his black cloak unfurling in the wind behind him. Theon watched as they embraced primly, though he noticed a shade of anger rise in his eyes. Theon tried to imagine the happiness he had felt when he had been promised to see his sister once more, only to be given an imposter.

Soft snowflakes began to tumble lightly from the grey, stark clouds, and Theon shivered in his cloak, his frail form trembling beneath the cloth. As Jeyne returned, and Jon shared a meaningful glance his way to signal their departure, Theon took her aside one last time.  
'Stay with Meera, Jojen and Bran,' he said urgently, 'don't wander ever. You have to be safe, keep yourself safe,' she looked at him, and nodded. 'Promise me,' she replied, 'promise me you will return.' Theon shook his head. 'You know I cannot make any such promise,' he said sadly. She nodded slightly, understanding, and Theon bid her a last farewell, hoping he would return, if only to see her safe. He walked steadily through the snow, and saw Nymeria's large form protruding from behind a wall. Theon sidled cautiously over to her. Her steely gaze met his eyes as he approached, and she padded softly toward him. He saw as Stannis made a curt farewell to his daughter, Shireen, who seemed nearly on the edge of tears as she was forced to see her last living parent leave to an uncertain fate beyond the Wall. The red woman stood beside her, a silent sentinel, her red ruby gleaming at her throat, as she surveyed the exchange with a slight smile playing on her lips, confident in her king to return. Theon turned to the direwolf. 'Keep the little princess safe,' he said quietly, 'please, as well as Jeyne.' The beast merely stared at him, it's glowing eyes betraying no emotion. Then she turned, and disappeared into the white with a flick of her tail. Perhaps she understood me, Theon thought doubtfully, though she did seem to possess an unsettling amount of intelligence.

The King's Hand, Lord Seaworth, was staying to man Castle Black in it's Lord Commander's absence. Pyp, the young steward who had nearly spirited Bran away, was forced to stay as well, on account of having no skills in combat. Neither do I, thought Theon, and yet I was folly enough to volunteer my mind for this expedition.

Eventually, he managed to find his horse, a slow, gentle brown mare with kind, dark eyes. Not so long ago, although it was hard for him to believe, he would have preferred a lively, fierce stallion to tame under his hand. Then he remembered the fire curling up Smiler's mane, as he screamed, and reared... Theon closed his eyes, attempting to drive the thought away, although it clung to his mind like the snow on his boots. He lightly caressed the mare's tender mane, and decided to never name her, for he knew if he did, her loss would only be the greater. It had been a long time since he had ridden on a horse, and he felt uncertain in the saddle, but felt at ease with the mare's amiable demeanour. Perhaps I will not fall, he prayed silently. He secured his boots in the stirrups, and guided her toward the army. As he was not exceptionally important, nor skilled in battle, Theon was placed in the rear, to be called to the front when needed. For the beginning it was particularly clear in which direction they would need to ride.

As a battle cry went up, he knew the gate was opening, and their journey had begun. Fear gripped at his heart, though he forced it down, and rode forward. He passed Bran and his constant escort of the Reeds, and Hodor, who held him in his basket on his back. Bran shared a small look at him as he passed, though he betrayed no thoughts in his expression. Theon nodded faintly, then met Jeyne's saddened appearance, her eyes downcast. He bit his tongue in his sudden urge to call out to her, and simply rode forward, merely hoping she would be safe.

It was as he passed the princess when he was stopped.

'Ser!' the little girl called out, pointing at him, 'Ser, please, a moment.' At first, he thought she had addressed another man, and nearly spurred his horse onward, but instead, the princess hurried forward, followed by the bewildered red woman, a member of the King's guard, and the King's Hand. Perplexed, Theon carefully pulled his horse from the procession. 'Yes, m'lady-my lady?' he stammered. Roose Bolton had lectured him on the pronunciation of peasant folk, though that language was for Reek. His name was Theon. The Princess Shireen stared up at him, her mangled face pulled into an innocent smile of slight concern. She approached his horse further.

'You saved me,' she said, 'you saw what happened to my mother, and you killed it with your little dagger.' Theon nodded timidly. He was aware of the three figures standing behind her, watching him intently. He still held the obsidian at his belt. She had not attended the meeting in the hall, he remembered, relieved. She had not seen his shameful performance. 'I brought something for you,' she continued. Theon looked at her in confusion. What? What was this? What was she doing? Her gloved hands dug inside the recesses of her robe, and extracted a small, smooth, hand-carved dragon, it's wings folded, it's head low and docile, it's tail wrapped around it's body. Theon stared fixedly at the delicate, intricate object, and felt an unexpected wave of emotion wash over him. The second gift he had ever been given. The small scroll of parchment bearing him and Wex's names still burrowed deep inside his pocket, though this was a gift of such beauty and kindness as he had never known. 'His name is Balerion, like the one Aegon rode during his conquest of Westeros,' she said, holding the carving up expectantly. Theon hesitantly stretched out his left hand, then quickly switched to his right, twisting his upper torso, and gently grasped the gift, careful not to drop it between his clumsy fingers. He gazed at the dragon, his eyes traveling the pattern of the wood grain.

'He's to keep you safe with his fire, to ensure your return,' she said. He looked at her, and fumbled for an appropriate response of gratitude. 'Thank you, my lady,' he managed, his voice shaking slightly. A tear nearly spilled from his eye, though he held it back. He guarded the precious gift close, holding it to his chest for a moment, before placing it carefully in his pocket. The princess grinned sweetly, pleased. 'I had Ser Davos, the Onion Knight carve it special,' she added. Theon glanced up, startled, at the Hand. He grinned and winked, nodding at Shireen. Theon smiled uncertainly, careful not to show his teeth.

'If it please you, ser, I should like to know your name,' she asked sweetly. Theon shook his head. 'I am not a knight, my lady,' he replied, surprised she had used the word 'ser' to address him. She faltered a second, somewhat confused. 'Oh?' she said, 'I am terribly sorry, my lord.' Theon's eyes widened at this new title, and glanced up despairingly at the Hand, who merely smiled. 'I do not believe I can call myself a lord...' Theon said quietly, 'you could just call me Theon, my lady.'

'Only Theon? No surname? No title?' she asked inquisitively. 'Let us just say,' he replied, 'that I'd rather not dispense with any, my lady.' She stared at him, brow furrowed, but then let it pass. She thought I was some gallant knight, he thought absently, albeit most likely a very ancient one. She should be sorely disappointed to find only me, just a broken man on a horse with nothing to his name. But you have your name, he remembered, and that is enough, and plenty.

The princess bid him a fare journey and a safe return, and he thanked her nervously. The Hand nodded and smiled at him before mounting his own horse, and Theon nodded back, estranged to the kindness that was directed to him. The red woman lingered, though, and approached his mare as the others left to wave the other soldiers to their imminent doom. Theon shifted in his saddle apprehensively as she neared, and flinched as she placed a warm hand on his knee. Let go, he screamed internally, let go, please, let go! How her hand could hold such heat was incomprehensible in the bitter cold.

'He entered your mind, and placed something there,' she said quietly 'something ancient, and dark, although...' she looked up meaningfully into his eyes, her gaze calm, knowing. 'You hold much darkness there already.' Theon spurred his horse forward a pace to escape her grasp. 'What of it?' he demanded. 'I assume you mean the material that has been added?' she clarified, undeterred. He nodded slightly. 'I know very little of this magic,' she admitted, 'but I know it will keep you alive, and it will lead you to your destination,' she explained. Theon frowned. 'How will it keep me alive? Magic such as that holds no existence-' she shook her head, her lips pulled into a complacent smile. 'Not in that way,' she responded, 'but in another.' She leaned in close, causing Theon to pull his horse further away. 'They will know of your identity,' she said, 'they will find out, or know already, as King Stannis's army holds many who know of you. Many northern houses stand among his men. They will not take kindly to the Turncloak in their midst.' Theon stared at her, then turned away, forcing his mare forward, her words haunting his mind. He hoped to the gods the north men would be the least of his problems, though he sorely doubted it.

He risked one last glance behind him, and briefly met Jeyne's tearful eyes, before she disappeared in the mass of horses hiding her from view. His heart trembled in his chest, but he turned forward in his saddle, his breath spurting in small puffs of fog, and he travelled through the tunnel. It was suffocating, close, but when they finally left into the open, a freezing wind tore at his cloak, and he soon wished for the enclosed warmth of the tunnel.

They began their journey north, to the end of the world, where dragon fire would soon meet the strongest ice, and see how well it melted.

* * *

Theon was bent low over his reigns, barely struggling to stay upright. They had ridden for three full days, never stopping for long to pitch a camp, but merely for rests at night, though no one could sleep in fear of the walkers, and for small meals. It was in the mind of the King to advance the most while their strength was at its largest. Theon was glad of these small stops, as it left no time for him to be confronted. The red woman's words still weighed heavy on him, and he did not wish for any trouble. As the soft rays of the sun began to drift below the horizon, and the darkness began to settle, they dared not continue, and a call went up for a camp, a rest, and a meal. Eagerly, every man (and woman, in the case of the Wildlings) swung from their saddles and began to pitch their tents in the vast, white clearing. Theon was to spend the first few weeks further in the rear of the party, then quickly migrate to the front when he would be needed. For now, he was forced to share a tent with the green boy of the Night's Watch he had helped during the battle at the Wall. He left in search of the boy, and managed to locate him standing nervously with a large bundle of cloth and ropes resting in his arms.

'Satin,' said Theon, addressing the boy by the only name he knew, though it was clear that was not his real name, but another that was given to him. It troubled him that anyone should use a name that was not their own, but he let it pass, and advanced slowly toward the boy with the soft, dark hair.

Satin did not know his own name, and asked accordingly. 'Theon,' he responded. He avoided the boy's stare, as he had been in the hall when Bran had entered his mind. The boy seemed apprehensive of him, and not too keen to be sharing a tent with him.

'The Lord Commander called you 'Greyjoy',' he stated. Theon nodded. 'He would, that's my last name,' he responded, not exactly knowing where this was going, only that it was not a cheerful destination. 'What of it?'

'Only...' the boy went on, 'I know who you are...' Unperturbed, Theon grabbed the bundle from the boy's arms. 'Aye, ' he said, 'I reckon a lot of people know who I am, you're not alone there,' he said lightly 'Are you going to help me with this, or not?'

The boy hastily bent to unfurl the bed rolls, all the while sneaking quick glances at him. Theon ignored them, and knelt in the snow to shove the nails down. Their work went on in silence, until Satin spoke once more.

'Why did you volunteer?' he asked inquisitively. Theon looked at him, and shook his head. 'I told the Lord Commander I wanted to be useful,' he answered simply, rising shakily from his frozen knees. 'What...what did the boy do to you?' He said, genuinely curious. Theon leaned against a tree to catch his breath, and bit his lip.

'Nothing much,' he responded carefully, 'just a...just a...' He faltered, searching for words, 'you need not concern yourself,' he said eventually. 'Come, you've starving.' Theon strolled forward uneasily with Satin trailing behind. As they neared the cluster of northmen, Theon's heart began to race faster against his ribs. Perhaps they would take no notice of him, he hoped, perhaps they would not even look his way.

Theon gently eased his way into the lengthy line for a meager bowl of stew, and stood, waiting patiently while his maimed feet numbed with cold. Satin stood silently beside him, all the while risking glances at him when he thought Theon wouldn't notice. Conscious of his appearance, and annoyed at the boy, Theon turned slightly away from him so his face would be hidden by the hood if his cloak. He hated it when people stared.

It was nearly his turn in line, when a cluster of burly, gruff northmen turned, and noticed him. Theon quickly turned away, bowing his head, praying inwardly that they would simply ignore him, but it was too much to hope for, and it wasn't as if anything ever went right for him. He couldn't even be killed when he wanted to be.

Theon heard their lumbering footsteps approach in the snow, their shadows looming over him. Beside him, he felt Satin take a few steps away from him. Smart boy, he thought absently. Reluctantly, Theon raised his head, though continued to stare resolutely ahead. The footsteps came to a halt.

'Greyjoy,' one of them spat. Theon turned to meet his withering glower. He surprised himself in holding his ground.

'Aye, that would be me,' he said quietly, dreading the immediate future. Why was his life constantly filled with pain, and hurt? He knew he had brought most of it on himself, he knew he deserved it, though he wished it would stop. He thought when he had escaped the clutches of Ramsay, had set his own loyal bitches on him, that it was over, that the monster was gone, and couldn't touch him any longer, though he knew it to be only wishful thinking. Theon would be hurt wherever he went, and it would never stop. The scars left by Ramsay's torture would never fully heal, he would be broken forever, never whole again, but he wished for only a second that the way people stared at him, their lips twisted into a sneer, their faces pulled into an expression of contempt and disgust, would just end. He remembered the sweet gaze of the princess Shireen as she had looked upon him as a hero, the wet tears on Jeyne's cheeks in their parting. He longed to be there with her, to stroke her hair in the darkness, and hold her tightly to keep from harm. To protect her. His hand dove into the pocket of his cloak, and he let his gloved hand trace the smooth grooves engraved in the dragon's wings. He smiled faintly.

'What are you grinning at, Turncloak?' The man sneered, advancing threateningly. Theon didn't move. 'You see, I don't think this makes a whole lot of sense, you being necessary. Your little performance in the hall was something to laugh at, I'll give you that, but I don't really believe that little boy went inside your head. You're nothing but a pathetic, conniving traitor, and I swore to myself the day Lord Stannis let you go, that I would find you. The north remembers.' A chorus went up behind him, echoing the last three uttered words, and Theon's heart sank, shame and guilt of his actions at Winterfell blossoming in his mind. It was all too painful to remember.

The man seized Theon by the shoulder, and ripped back the cloak from his head. He gasped slightly at the ruin of his grey, lank hair, and thrust his hand under Theon's chin, yanking his head up to face him. Theon gazed into the man's eyes, unsure of what to feel, or do, wether he should fight, or submit. Then he saw the expression in the man's frostbitten face. It was one of anger, pity, sadness. Theon's brow furrowed.

'My wife was in Winterfell the day you took it, and still there the day you lost it,' the man's voice shook, 'the day you burnt it to the ground and everyone in it.'

Not me, Theon thought desperately, Ramsay did that, I was trying to save them, he wanted flayings, he wanted Kyra, and he shattered my jaw, and set my horse on fire. He murdered maester Luwin, and everyone man and woman living in the castle, all gone in the smoke and flames. He was trembling in the man's grip, his heart fluttering in his chest. I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

'You're sorry?' The man spat, 'you think Ramsay did it all, then? Your apologies will never bring my wife back!' Theon realized in horror that he had muttered all of his thoughts aloud. Please, I'm sorry...

The blow caught him in the jaw, and Theon fell backwards, into the snow. He struggled to his feet, only to be knocked down again by a kick and a strike to his tempel. Stop, please, stop... Blows rained down around him, he was surrounded by boots and fists, the light disappeared, and there was only the pain. Except Theon Greyjoy was used to pain. He couldn't imagine his life without it, and no beating would ever be worse than the kiss of Ramsay's flaying knife. He closed his eyes, and amidst the wall of violence, managed to thrust his own fists into the air, and fight back. Not that it did much good, except extract angry shouts of rage, and an intensity in the beating.

Suppose I'll die right here and now, and that red woman was wrong. No one needs me, he was fool enough to even think Jeyne needed him. She was under Jon's protection, and Jon had an army at his back. Who was Theon? Just Theon. Merely a broken man with a name. Nobody needs me, he thought.

Theon eventually grew tired, his whole frail body wreathed in burning pain, and he lay back in the snow, greeting the bloody end that was destined to him. Then the blows stopped.

Theon was dimly aware of a voice bellowing in the distance, though he couldn't make out who it belonged to, and what it was articulating. Rough hands began to grab at him, and he groaned in protest. Please, just let me die.

'We can't have that, Greyjoy, Jon needs you at the moment,' the voice replied, and once again Theon realized he had voiced his thoughts. Theon tried to make sense of the voice, but it was like trying to grasp butter, the words slipping through his fingers to spiral on the floor.

Theon's limp form was lifted from the ground and cradled in the pit of Tormund's arms. Tormund Giantsbane, Theon recollected. There was no one else he knew that possessed larger hands than him.

'As for you lot,' Tormund grunted, 'I reckon the Lord Commander and your King will want to have a word. This boy is needed, his mind has been stuffed with our directions. You have just put this entire journey in danger, and nearly killed a man weaker and smaller than yourselves.'

Theon soon fell unconscious in the rhythmic sway of the wildling's stride.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more!


	3. Winter's Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The various dangers beyond the Wall decide to reveal themselves. Theon demonstrates his importance, and Jon his bravery, as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been very lazy with this installment, I apologize. I promise this chapter will have more going on, and if it doesn't, I apologize in advance. I hope you enjoy none the less.

'Should we wake him?'

'No, my queen, just leave him be, look at the state of him.'

'He never should have come, Lord Commander.'

'He volunteered, your grace, and I didn't see anyone else willing to do so.'

'How old is this man? You let an old man volunteer his mind and his life-

'My queen, he is not an old man.'

Voices echoed at the edge of Theon's consciousness, and he strained to open his eyes, though his vision was blurred and fogged. It was similar to clawing his way from a nightmare, although this time, he was surfacing into one. He could only assume that the voices drumming on his ears were speaking of him, a subject that never bode well for him. Theon attempted to rise, though his attempts were met with flares of pain racing along his torso, his jaw, his arms and legs. He groaned in response, and fell back, exhausted. An old touch of panic erupted inside him. Ramsay would never tolerate this sort of behavior, he had to rise, be useful... Ramsay was gone, he reminded himself forcefully, you set his own bitches on him. He's dead, he's dead, he can't hurt you anymore. He didn't realize he had been breathing rapidly until a hand settled gently on his arm to calm him. This sudden gesture only surprised him, and Theon forced his eyes open, his breath caught in ragged gasps. 

The hand flew away in alarm, and Theon struggled to rise, eventually settling in part defeat with his meager weight resting on his elbows. He realized he was naked to the waist, with bloodstained bandages encasing his torso, and wrapped along his arms. He stared at the white linen pulled taught along his skin, a dull, burning pain lacing across his entire body. He began to shake, trembling uncontrollably. Scars and flayed skin crisscrossed his chest and his back, winding up his arms, nearly hidden under new wounds, but still there. His hands lay at his side, his feet lay in front of him, bare, the jagged stumps resting in plain view. He was suddenly taken with an overwhelming urge to hide, to cover himself. They had seen his shame, they could see what Ramsay had done to him, what the northmen had done. 

'Theon, calm down,' a gloved hand rested on his shoulder, and Jon's pale face came into view, his expression one of puzzlement, and even concern, Theon noticed.

'But why did the northmen attack him?' a voice asked from a few feet away. It was soft, and that of a woman's, Theon noticed. Ye gods, I'm in this wretched state in front of the dragon queen, he thought miserably. Jon helped him to a seated position, his scarred feet hanging over the edge of the bed. Theon groaned with the effort, and breathed heavily, attempting to contain his rapidly beating heart. He was relying on Jon for support, his maimed, left hand unintentionally clinging to his shoulder, though Jon didn't seem to mind.

Theon slowly raised his head, and met the glowering stare of Stannis Baratheon, the subtle gaze of his Hand by his side, and the nearly pitiying eye of Daenerys Targaryen. Then he locked onto Jon's expression. It was probably the one that bewildered him the most. It was of... He couldn't quite make it out, as his face seemed to be filled with conflicting emotions.

'He is not an old man?' The queen spoke, diverting his attention. Theon felt an overpowering sense of exposure. He couldn't stand the way she was staring at him, her deep, violet eyes boring into his frail frame. 'How is this so? How old is he then?'

'Two and twenty,' the gruff voice of Tormund Giantsbane filled the room as he came into view from behind the cluster of disputed royalty. 'An' I doubt he appreciates us staring at him like he's a piece of meat. Here boy,' he tossed him a grey, clean shirt. Theon caught it inexpertly, fumbling with his remaining fingers, and carefully pulled it over his head. The fabric was soft, and warm, and above all fresh, a welcome improvement. He mumbled a thanks, wincing at the pain throbbing in his jaw and torso. Theon gently raised his hand to feel along his face, and found it decorated with cuts and bruises. It was almost like a walk in the past, the pain and the fear his constant companions once more. He wished ever so slightly that they would finally leave him be, though he knew he would never have such luck.

'Two and twenty?' The queen gasped quietly. She turned to peer at him once more in disbelief. 'But what happened to him? How could we have taken him on this expedition while in such a, a state as this!' She gestured at him vaguely, and Theon instinctively shrank from her hand.

'The question is not what happened to him, but what did he do,' Stannis muttered. 'He stole a castle, burned it down, and murdered two children. Then he was captured, and tortured to insanity by Ramsay Bolton who he then later murdered,' he explained in a monotonous tone. 'He is nothing but a turncloak.'

'My name is Theon,' he mumbled, raising his knees to his chest, 'my name is Theon,' he said more to himself than anyone else. He had to remember his name, he was never going to forget it again. He lowered his gaze to his knees to avoid the queen's reaction.

'He went mad in the hall, when the boy went inside his head...' She said, her voice distant, though slightly cold. Another who would loathe me, Theon thought miserably, another who would look on me in disgust. He wanted to run, to hide, to escape their constant, piercing stares. He wrapped his frail arms around his knees protectively, and lowered his head. Why had he come? Why had he stupidly volunteered? Did he delight in being abused by men?

'So you have let a mad man join us on our expedition? He is in no condition to have been permitted to volunteer!' the queen argued forcibly. The king shrugged. 'We can't turn him away now, he apparently is our only chance of finding the White Walker, though I am not sure if I can trust a boy's magic,' he said. 'The northmen aren't too pleased with him, and we'll have mutiny on our backs if we let him wander around the camp freely.'

'So we should just keep a mad man in this room with us?'

'Perhaps we should burn him like I should have done a while ago. It would secure the loyalty of the north, and dispense with this pitiful character,' Stannis gestured at Theon in disgust.

'Yer grace, if I could make a suggestion-

'Not now, Ser Davos,' Stannis interjected. 

'Forgive me, yer grace, but perhaps the boy would like to have his own say in his fate. I'm sure he would not appreciate being killed so soon after being rescued.'

The king and queen stopped to face him, and a grin broadened on Tormund's face. Theon realized the room's attention was directed at him, and he squirmed slightly under their harsh gaze.

'Perhaps, lad, some proof of your newly aquired skill would be of some use?' Davos proposed kindly. Theon blinked at him, then suddenly remembered. He nearly leapt from the bed in his haste and anxiety, but merely ended in falling back on the edge in a groan. He stared desperately at the Hand as fire burned through his torso.

'Where,' he gasped, 'where are my clothes?'

'We were to have those filthy things burned,' Stannis replied passively. Theon blanched.

'But,' he sputtered, 'the pockets! Please, I had...' He gazed at the Hand imploringly. If he had lost those precious things...

'Not to worry, lad,' Ser Davos reassured, 'we had the pockets emptied. Their contents are on this table,' he waved to a small, wooden desk behind him. Theon attempted to rise once more, and with Jon's help, was able to obtain a shaky stand. His thin knees wobbled beneath his feeble weight, and he slowly staggered towards the Hand. He was about to reach out, when Ser Davos stopped him.

'However, there was one thing of interest...' he said, and held up a thin, sleek piece of dragonglass. 'The Lord Commander would like to know where you managed to get it from.' Theon turned round, and glanced guiltily at Jon.

'It was during the battle,' he said softly, 'I asked Tormund where the glass was kept, and he told me. I stole it from your room, and armed the Wildlings with it. I... I forgot to ask for them back. I'm sorry,' he apologized, 'but I... I managed to slay a White Walker with it,' he mumbled. The assembled leaders stared at him for a moment, when Tormund erupted in a guffaw of laughter.

'Nice story, lad,' he chuckled, 'but you couldn't slay me mum, much less a walker. You've got enough meat and strength in your bones as a skeleton.' Theon glanced up nervously, though a small part of him flared with anger, and indignation. I'm ironborn, he thought distantly, I'm ironborn, and I slay a White Walker, I have fought in battle, and I am not a boy any longer. I have not been a boy for a very long time.

These treacherous thoughts broke through the broken shell of his persona, and for a moment, merely a second, his back straightened, his shoulders rolled back, and he remembered who exactly Theon was. Not a broken man, but a warrior. An archer. An man of the Iron Islands.

Theon became aware that the room had fallen silent, and he leaned on the desk behind him in surprise at his own burst of strength that had engulfed him for a moment. It had been a wonderful moment, he contemplated, for he had gotten to be Theon again. The real Theon, not the broken shell he inhabited. Trembling, he grabbed for the remaining objects on the table, and sighed with relief as he grasped the small wooden carving, and the creased, wrinkled scrap of parchment that bore his and Wex's names. He glanced at the crooked writing once more, and smiled slightly, the corner's of his lips quivering uncertainly. He could never smile often now, but he remembered when he grinned all the time, mostly, he reflected, to hide his own misery. The smile faded as instantly as it had sprung, and he hugged the dragon tightly to his chest. He glanced up to see the Hand's knowing grin widening on his face. He nodded at the wood carving, and Theon remembered that it had been him who had crafted it.

'The little princess came to me after the battle, and told me to make her a present. "Not for me," she said, "but for a brave knight who has saved me from a monster." ' he said happily, 'so I got out my blade and a hunk of wood to carve a dragon for a mystery knight who had saved the princess,' the room was silent at this, 'it wasn't until she stopped you in the line, that I discovered who had performed the gallant deed,' he continued, 'and I was pleasantly surprised. I know that you saved her from a creature that few of us have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I believe you killed this beast, Theon, and I believe that you cannot be an evil man, nor a mad one, if you rescue little girls from monsters.'

Theon hung on to each word, his heart swelling. He reached out a maimed hand, and grasped Ser Davos by the shoulder. 'You...you said my name,' he said quietly, 'you believe... I am not an evil man? You...you do not wish for my death? You do not believe I should die? Even...' he gulped, 'even if I truly am useless in this journey, and Bran's magic is false?'

'Lad,' Ser Davos clapped him on the shoulder gently, 'I do not believe you are useless, regardless of any fancy witchcraft, and I do not believe a man who is not useless should be destined to die,' he replied. Theon's heart soared at these words, and he truly smiled, his lips parting to reveal the cracked, broken remains of his teeth.

'I saw him during the battle,' Tormund spoke up, advancing, 'he gave orders, he organized the Wildlings, the Wildlings of all people,' he grinned, 'and he fought without a touch of cowardice. Aye, he is a little beaten and weak right now, but I have seen him strong, and when he is strong, he is worth more than the rest of you lot combined. He doesn't go about ordering people's deaths should they not seem useful to him.'

'Theon,' Jon advanced this time, 'it would be of some use to us, however, if you did show us some direction, if you could prove your worth, otherwise, in your condition, we will be forced to send you back to the Wall. You are not fit for this kind of journey so far north.' Theon nodded hesitantly. At the edge of his mind he felt an ever present tugging sensation, a need to be somewhere. Theon had always been wary of anything to do with his mind, as he was well familiar with games of the wit, tricks that usually ended in him losing a finger, and Ramsay exceedingly pleased. Though the feeling was always there, a door waiting to be unlocked, hammering on the edge of his consciousness. He blinked. Perhaps if he could find a way to widen the crack, to find the key, and open the door...

Theon closed his eyes, and attempted to concentrate against the pressing gazes of the company surrounding him, and against the pain writhing across his body. Perhaps if he really did wish to know where the monstrous Night's King was...

His brow furrowed, and he edged cautiously around the door in his mind, poking and prodding, hoping... the hinges creaked, light began to seep from under the door...

A burst of screams wrenched Theon from his concentration, and he glanced around in alarm. Jon was already running to the door, his longsword in hand, light glinting off the silver steel, Tormund close at his heels. Theon rushed to the window, wincing all the while, and stared in horror. There were giant spiders crawling through the snow, their long limbs plunging holes into the ice, their bodies speckled with fur and sprinkled with frost. Theon blanched as the enormous creatures neared, plowing through screaming men and women, their black eyes peering through the fog intensely, almost as though they were searching. One of them held the trembling body of a man clenched between its fangs, blood splattering in the snow, his neck twisted at an odd angle. Fear gripped Theon's heart, and he quickly shoved his prized possessions into his pockets, reached for the black cloak that hung on the peg above his sick bed, grasped the sword that lay on the desk where his other belongings had sat moments before, and nearly departed into the storm, when he was stopped by Ser Davos.

'Greyjoy,' he said solemnly, 'I do not think you would be needed in this, you are in no condition to fight, and your are the key to the North, as we would believe. You must stay,' he pushed Theon gently, but firmly back onto the bed, a task that was simple, as Theon nearly collapsed on it anyways.

'But I must go,' he protested, 'men are dying out there, women.' Davos merely shook his head, and removed the sword clenched inexpertly in Theon's hand. He was about to submit to the knight's insistence, but a great thud in the side of the wall sent them all reeling, from fright more than anything. Davos inched to the window, and gasped, terror etched on his worn face. This frightened Theon, as the Hand usually seemed collected and calm. Instead, he was the picture of agitation, and he backed quickly away from the window.

'They're surrounding us,' he breathed, 'they're everywhere-

The walls began to shake, then shudder and scream as a loud scrambling erupted around them. Theon could only guess that they were crawling up the walls onto the roof. There was no time. Stannis and the dragon queen were still inside with them, and Stannis drew his sword.

The ceiling gave one last shudder, then, in a blast of stones and splinters, it collapsed, and the room was filled with hell. Ser Davos pushed them out of the way, grabbing Theon with him, and they plunged through the door out into the snow. Theon groaned, his limbs and torso flaring with pain. The Hand hoisted him to his feet, and they set running blindly into the storm, wind and snow scraping at their faces. Around them men were screaming, and flailing in the snow, trying to get away from...

Theon stopped in his tracks, as did the rest of his company, as they saw the dark, ominous figures looming ahead, standing still in the snow. Stannis and the queen began to back away slowly, his weapon raised, poised to strike in the full knowledge it was useless against this particular army of the dead. Theon remained unarmed, though Davos seemed to be half shielding him with his own blade, the steel held in front of them both. Stannis seemed torn in the decision of wether to protect his family's adversary, who carried no weapon but a small dagger at her belt, or to let her meet her fate. He was constantly changing his stance to either be in front of her, guarding her, or stepping off to the side. Eventually his honour won, and he assumed a protective position in front.

They were trapped now, between the spiders behind, and the dead men in front. Theon closed his eyes, his heart rattling fiercely in his chest, listening to the wind whistling in his ears.

Then a cry echoed through the forest, the vicious, furious scream of a dragon.

Theon's eyes flew open, and soon the landscape of white was plunged into bright orange and blue flames dancing in the snow, consuming the dead, smoke swirling for the sky. Men and women took up arms, and attacked the struggling bodies, plunging fiery spears and arrows into their hearts. Behind them, still the beastly spiders came, plowing through the snow, large, unstoppable. Theon searched in vain for a weapon, though Davos did not leave his side.

A spider came, it's long legs hacking through the snow, knocking men and women aside as though they were toys, heading for one single destination with one purpose...

It came upon Theon, pouncing through the air to land nearly on top of him, knocking him to the ground. Theon hit the snow hard, his head hitting ice. He was half dazed, the sheer terror of the monster rearing on top of him, fangs spraying venom, legs reeling, kept him conscious. Theon struggled furiously, attempting to escape from beneath the beast. The creature stooped in for the kill...

A sword struck into it's side, knocking the beast aside, sending it reeling and screaming in agony. Theon scrambled to his feet, and saw Ser Davos standing with his sword coated in a thick, slimy black substance. The blood of the spider, undoubtedly. Before Theon could express his thanks, he turned to the sound of the spiders crunching through the snow, a terrible army. They seemed to all be converging on one single objective, he realized. Stannis and the dragon queen were no where to be seen. Only Davos stood between Theon, and a mass of death. They want me, he thought, they're coming for me. He realized in that instant that of course the magic would work. It would work, because the king of the dead had sent his soldiers and monsters to kill him.

A ring of fire fell from the sky to encircle him and the Hand. Theon glanced up, and saw the massive torso of a thickly scaled dragon, it's wings beating rhythmically. Its fire rained from its tongue, coating the spiders in a sea of ash and flames. Theon closed his eyes against the smoke, dug into his pocket, and clutched the wooden carving between his fingers.

When he opened them again, when the dust cleared and the fire died, the large charred corpses of the spiders lay in the snow, while other large tracks showed their flight. The survivers of the attacks converged on Theon and Ser Davos, stepping through the ruin into the untouched circle of white powdered snow.

Jon eased his way from the crowd, Stannis, dripping blood, and a scowl, emerged, and in a flurry of snow, the silver queen landed her dragon beside them. They seemed to gaze at him expectantly, at the man who was the reason for the attack, the one who was responsible... But also important. The key to the North.

Theon gazed at the assemblage, his fingers tightening on the carving. He managed a weak smile, as his mind opened and bent with magic.

'I know where to go,' he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There will be one more chapter for this part, and there will be loads more parts to come, if you're interested. I'm sorry I almost kill him way too often.


	4. The Night's King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trudging through the snow reveals the greatest, and most secrect castle of the North. Theon has awkward conversations with the mother of dragons, and other subjects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wraps up this installation, but there are definitely more parts to come, though I am unfortunately a procrastinator. In this chapter, I will try to make it more interesting, I'm sorry for my continous long winded paragraphs, and lousy writing. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> p.s I completely forgot about Coldhands! My goodness! Please use your amazing imaginations and pretend he has been along on this adventure the whole time, though a bit unoticed by the more prominent characters besides Theon. He will definitely feature in this chapter, spoilers.
> 
> P.p.s I apologize for any spelling errors.

Theon rode slowly through the snow, his gentle mare regained once more. For the first time he rode at the front of the army, a few paces ahead of Stannis and Jon with his constant wildling companion, Tormund. Beside Theon, the dragon queen rode a spirited, pale stallion, her back tall, her head directed in front, nearly avoiding his eyes. He could not believe he was riding with the lost Targaryen princess, though he didn't doubt she was not too pleased with the addition of his company. 

He didn't mind, or take much time to notice, as his mind was in a wirl. Doors were opening, some he would have preferred to keep shut, others useful and magical. He felt an overwhelming, constant tugging sensation, a need to be in a specific place, and he felt he would not feel satisfied or complete until he reached it. What nearly felt for the first time in his life, he knew where he was going. It was clear, he simply guided his horse along the path, each step layed carefully, and easily, the pulling sensation leading him, his steps marked by instinct. Very rarely did he trust his own instincts, but know, he was forced to rely solely on them.

'Are you sure you know where you're leading us?' Daenerys asked, the question having been asked more than once.

'My lady,' he said, 'I have rarely been sure of anything in my life. This is a strange experience for me.' He was astonished at the tone of his response, but he was tired of being doubted, tired of being nothing but weak and powerless, and regarded upon as being untrustworthy. He was leading an army, and he was ironborn.

Jon sidled up betweem him and the queen, his expression, as usual, grim. 

'Are you certain you know what you're doing, Greyjoy?' He asked. Theon glanced at him, and nodded. 

'It's hard to explain,' he replied, 'but it's like I know, with each step, I can feel it, that I'm getting closer. Closer to something terrible, and cold, but I need to be there.' Jon regarded him uneasily. 

'I don't trust magic,' he confessed, 'that red woman back at Castle Black always gave me the chills, and now you're in command of this entire army, leading us to who knows where because Bran supposedly did something to your mind.' 

'Jon, I know you don't like me,' Theon said solemnly, 'when we were growing up, I thought you were a right prick,' Jon smiled at the remark, 'I know you have no cause to trust me, but his isn't me,' he gestured in front of him, 'this isn't me leading your army, this is something that was placed inside me that is playing havoc with my mind, but it is guiding me. Gods know plenty of things have loved to tangle with my mind, that I guess I'm used to it,' he added quietly.

Jon glanced down, his expression pensive.

'Greyjoy, I'm sorry,' he said at last. Theon was taken aback in surprise. 

'You're what?'

Jon turned his head to face him, his grey, stark eyes displaying sympathy.

'I'm sorry,' he repeated, 'I...I have never seen a man as...as changed, and as broken as you.' Theon stared at him intently.

'Hells,' he laughed weakly, 'I was even jealous of your looks when we were growing up. I hated you, Robb liked you, and you loathed me back,' he sighed, 'but we were both outcasts, envious of a family we could never truly be a part of.' Theon was silent at this. He remembered well what feeling Jon spoke, the sense of being on the outside looking in on a harmonious family, though more chaotic with Arya. Jon was at least half a stark, whereas Theon had been rejected from his own family, and given to the one who had crushed his father's rebellion. He had grown up with the greatsword Ice looming constantly over his shoulder, the members of the castle suspicious of him, and the sea so very far away. 

'I wanted to kill you for what you did to them,' Jon continued, 'when you walked through my door at Castle Black, I thought you had murdered my half brothers. Then you told me you hadn't. You went beyond the Wall, yourself and Jeyne, both of you hardly sporting enough strength for your return to be possible. I let you go,' he said quietly, 'even when part of me knew you would never come back. I did not care if you died.' He stared into Theon's eyes, 'and then you did come back, risking your life, and you brought me Bran, my little brother,' his lips curled into a smile, 'you brought him back to me when I thought he was lost.'

'It wasn't until I saw you, lying on that table after the northmen had attempted to slaughter you, that I saw how...' he glanced at the snow, 'how much you had...' Theon lowered his gaze ashamedly. 'Hells, you were missing fingers, and toes, and your hair was white as the snow. Your torso looked like a battle field, even without the new addition of scars. Gone was the fancy, handsome prick I used to know, and here was this, this skeleton of an old, broken man lying before me. I could never have believed it was you...' He trailed off softly. Theon stared at the snow crunching beneath the horse's hooves, unsure of what to make of Jon's accounts. 

'You looked in a pretty sorry state yourself when I first saw you, Snow,' he said at last, boldly saying the baseborn name he used when they were living at Winterfell. 'You're looked to be on death's door.' Jon laughed at that, his features crinkling into a smile. 

'Now that's the Theon I used to know,' he chuckled. Theon managed himself a shaky grin.

Neither had laughed in what seemed to be a lifetime, and never did they do so together. An unspoken bond had passed between them, and Theon realized it was sacred, and felt at ease for the first time in a very long while.

They rode forth into the snow, the future uncertain, but cold.

~

The castle had been found in the centre of a forest, through an unexpected cave, and suddenly, across a vast landscape of white. It took them days to eventually scout out the fortress, but eventually, during the ride of a particularly long day, Theon felt a surge of strength take hold of him, the feeling pulling him forward forcefully, and he suddenly forced his mare into a fierce gallop. He gave a cry of alarm at his own actions, but rode her hard i to the wind, trusting his instincts, and letting them guide him over the frozen wasteland. 

The castle seemingly to magically sprout from the earth in front of him, appearing as if by magic after days of nothing but a vast desert of white. At the sight of it, the tall, sinister, ice walls looming predatorially above him, he brought his outburst under control, and pulled heavily on the reigns, nearly sending him flying from his saddle.

Theon panted from the spurt of exertion, and, fighting the intense urge to ride directly up to the castle, he turned his horse around, and located a spot to eye the castle from a safe, hidden area as he waited for the army to arrive. 

The dragon queen, followed by Jon, and Stannis, eventually emerged, and they gazed at the foreboding structure in wonder, and anxiety. 

'I did it,' Theon murmured to himself more than the others, 'I found it.'

'Well done, lad' Davos arrived, smiling at Theon encouragingly. 

'Yes, but how can we get inside? The grounds and gate are crawling with walkers and wights,' Stannis interjected. Theon had been suppressing the boiling, nearly uncontrollable urge to ride forward, and he trusted that if he gave in, perhaps he would discover some accessible route.

'I'll go forward,' he suggested, 'and see if I can find anything.' 

'Be careful, Theon,' Jon cautioned, 'you don't want to give away our presence, or, you know, get yourself killed.'

'I'll try not to, Snow,' he replied loftily, 'but something also tells me the gods aren't done with me yet.' He spurred his horse onward, and began to search for anything that would present a possible entrance...

It felt like hours he was riding, seemingly getting farther away from the castle than nearer, but eventually, the tugging feeling surged through him so strongly, that he knew, as he neared a small indentation in the snow, that he had found what he was looking for.

In his eagerness, he nearky tumbled from his saddle, but quickly collected himself, and knelt hurriedly in the snow. He began to dig, the feeling driving him forward, and finally, he reached a stone slab hidden beneath the snow.

It was quite large, but with a shovel he had taken attached to his horse, and all the stength he could muster, the stone moved, and he found the dark, threatening entrance to a hidden tunnel. Theon knew, with every bone in his body, that this was their key to the castle.

He didn't waste a moment, but climbed back on his horse to tell the others of his discovery.

~

'A tunnel? Leading to the castle? How can this be?' Jon asked.

'I suppose if the walkers needed an escape in case they were attacked- Theon began.

'The walkers are the most powerful beasts alive, why would they need an escape?' Stannis demanded. 

'It was buried beneath lots of snow, and didn't look like it had been used in thousands of years,' Theon replied calmly, 'but it is a small tunnel, not all of us could infiltrate the castke using it. I suggest a small nu,ber of us could go, and open the gates from the inside to let the rest of the army in-

'That's assuming they don't get killed first,' the king grunted, 'they will know we are coming, they sent those monsters after us. How will a few men be able to simply glide through an unfamiliar castle, and unlock the doors?' 

'I will go,' said Theon. They fell silent at this. 'I feel as though I know this castle, its rooms and halls are familiar to me, I could easily find my way through to the doors, and open them-

'You're not going alone,' Jon said firmly, 'gods know what lies inside that hell.'

'Who would follow me?' Theon inquired, 'I will not ask men to accompany me to die.'

'Men will die anyway,' Stannis said curtly. 'I agree with the lord Commander, you can't go alone.'

'But who would co e with me?' Theon asked, 'you are all far too imporant and needed in the army to follow me.' 

'I will go, your grace, if it's not too much trouble,' Ser Davos volunteered. Stannis stared at him in surprise.

'But you are the King's Hand,' he replied, 'required at the king's side in battle.'

'With all due resoect, your grace,' he said, 'I was a smuggler for a lot longer before I came to these glorious titles. If it's smuggling that needs doing, then I confess, I am your man.'

Stannis eventually nodded hesitantly. 'It cannot be just you two,' he said. 

'I agree,' Tormund Giantsbane lumbered forward. 'I'll go,' he said, ' and fuck this false king beyond the wall in the arse.' Theon smiled gratefully, but then frowned again at their small party. It was still not enough.

Then a darkly clad figure stepped silently from the shadows, his cloak trailing in the snow behind him.

'I'll go,' said Coldhands. Theon stared at him in surprise, unaware that he had in fact accompanied them on their journey north. 

'Who are you?' said Jon curiously. 

'His name is, er, Coldhands,' Theon stammered, 'he helped Jeyne and me find Bran beyond the Wall. He knows Bran, he, he saved us more than once, I trust him.' Jon nodded, and let him pass. He turned to the vast army stretched out behind him.

'Anyone else?' He inquired halfheartedly. Most of these men knew they were going to die, but they still wouldn't see any point in accelerating the process.

To his surprise, one man stepped forward, his burly shoulders rolled back.

'I'll do it,' said Grenn, Jon's friend, Theon vaguely remembered.

Jon hesitantly agreed, and they embraced as a farewell. As the small company was about to depart, Jon stopped Theon.

'Don't die, Greyjoy,' he said awkwardly. Theon nodded.

'And you, Snow,' he replied, smiling. Jon returned the grin, and soon the party was off, riding across the barren land to an uncertain fate.

~

The tunnel was dank, and cramped, they had been forced to say farewell to their horses, and Theon couldn't help but feel slightly sad with parting from it. He knew there was little chance it would survive.

Theon led the way, Tormund holding a torch behind him to light the way. Coldhands walked silently at the back of the procession, while Grenn and Davos spoke amiably just behind Theon and Tormund. With each step, the intense pulling sensation in Theon's mind grew, consuming his body until it was all he could do not to run ahead, leaving the others behind. But he could never do that.

'So how exactly does this,' Tormund gestured vaguely at Theon, 'work?' Theon shrugged.

'I just...feel as if I know where I'm going and I know where I need to be, almost as if,' Theon stammered, 'as if there is something pulling me there.' Tormund shook his head.

'Magic is a nasty business,' he muttered darkly. Theon bit his lip, but said nothing. It scared him slightly, the infiltration on his mind and emotions, controlling where each step he took would land. It unnerved him, but he felt no need to tell the wildling that.

After what seemed like hours of trudging mindlessly into the darkness, the air tightening around them, they reached a dead end. Theon's heart momentarily plummeted, but the feeling in his body only grew stronger. Without realizing what he was doing, he motioned for Tormund to shine the light of the torch onto the ceiling of the tunnel. He obliged, and a black, circular slab of stone was revealed.

'This will lead us straight into the castle, I can feel it,' Theon reassured. Tormund shrugged, and wordlessly handed him the torch, drew in a deep breath, and pushed upwards on the slab with all his strength. He gave a great, furious grunt, and soon, the stone gave way at his pressure, and slid up, and the the side with a last mighty push.

Theon went through the hole first, his body thrust through the opening by Tormund as he stood on his shoulders. He struggled to his feet, and helped Grenn, and Davos climb up through the hole. Coldhands and Tormund managed on their own.

Once everyone had regained solid ground, they took a chance to gather their surroundings.

They were inside a dark room, Tormund's torch the singular light. The ceiling was low, but the air was the coldest Theon had ever felt. His breath immediately froze into tiny ice crystals hanging in the air, and he shivered in his fur cloak. Coldhands, unaffected by the staggering temperature, urged them to continue their journey.

They appeared to be in a forgotten room hidden beneath the castle, the only door to escape rotted, and opened easily at their touch. Theon led the procession into a dank hallway, and up a frozen staircase made of ice.

The entire castle was made of ice, the walls reflecting their forms obscurely. The ceiling stretched to an impossible height, and grand hall they found themselves in was completely empty, stretching out into numerous, barren hallways. Theon silently thanked the gods, for their infiltration had been so far without incident. He was about to follow his instincts down one hall, when a soft cry stole through the air, freezing them in their tracks, causing their hearts to race rapidly in alarm.

It had come from a directly to their right, although Theon's instincts had been telling him to travel forward. The cry had been high, and cheerful, almost the gurgle of a baby.

Abandoning the urge to continue forward, Theon turned, and followed the sound down the hall, and into a small room. The party reluctantly followed, and they stared as they entered the room.

It was a nursery, Theon thought. Ten babies lay happily in beds constructed of ice, and they wore no blankets to protect them from the cold. Theon stepped towards them cautiously, and bent down to peer at the nearest one. His heart stopped.

Bright blue eyes stared back at him, gazing deeply into his own, almost as though it could see everything that was hidden there. The baby's skin was tinged a light blue, and when he reached down to touch it's tender chest, he quickly pulled away. The skin was cold as ice, and he felt no heart beat.

'They're walkers,' he announced quietly to the company behind him, 'they were little babies, and now they are...monsters.' Tears pricked at his eyes, and he felt Coldhands standing benind him.

'They are the next generation of White Walkers,' he said sadly, 'the continuation of the beasts.'

'We can't let these creatures live forever,' Tormund said, 'when the Night's King dies, they all have to be gone, or this winter will never end.'

'We can't kill them,' Grenn exclaimed, 'they're infants for gods sake!'

'I'm afraid,' Coldhands muttered somberly, 'that they died as soon as they were converted. A monster took their place.'

'So you're saying we have to kill them?' Grenn shook his head, 'I can't do that.'

'I will deal with this,' Coldhands said quietly, pulling on a glove, and extracting a shard of obsidien from the recesses of his cloak. Theon felt sick. Two children had died at his own hand, and they haunted him every waking hour.

'Please don't do this, Coldhands,' he pleaded. Coldhands merely turned away from him.

'I'm afraid this needs to be done. Take the others to the gate,' he replied. Theon was about to protest, when Tormund came up behind him.

'He's right, lad,' he said, gently pulling Theon away, 'this is something that needs to be done.'

They left the room, closing the door carefully behind them, and Theon imagined each pair of their shining blue eyes closing, one after the other, as Coldhands thrust his blade into their frozen hearts.

They crept silently through the halls, Theon leading the procession, Grenn's exoression cast in gloom, and soon they came to the end of the hall that spread into the entrace of the castle, a great, ice gate looming in front of them.

A walker stood beside the gate, its frozen sword held at its side, its piercing blue eyes searching the hall for any signs of movement. Theon quickly ushered the others behind a wide, ice pillar before it could lay its eyes on them.

Ser Davos quietly unsheathed the sword at his belt, and Theon recognized it as Jon's sword, the pommel delicately carved to the head of a white direwolf. It was made of Valyrian steel, he realized. It was their only hope against the walkers, that, and the small dagger of obsidian Davos had let Theon keep.

'Are you any good with a sword, man?' Tormund asked bluntly. The knight shook his head. 'I've never been much of a fighter,' he confessed, 'perhaps one of you lot would be more skilled in the killing of this walker?' Theon had killed one of the beasts before, but he doubted the technique he used would work in this circumstance.

Tormund quickly vounteered, hefting the greatsword easily in his hand.

'I've always wanted to kill a walker,' he said smiling. The plan was as soon as they opened the gates, the queen would come in on her dragons, the army following her close behind. Her fire was the signal for their advancement, and in the time it would take for the army to approach, the small company gathered in the hall would try not to die.

What happened next was quick.

Tormund rushed from his hiding place, and ran toward the White Walker, who seemed to be taken momentarily off guard. Toemund hacked savagely at the monster, and soon, with one great slash, the beast crumbled into a million shards of ice.

There was no time to lose. Theon could already feel a stir through the castle. The dead were coming.

They rushed from their hiding place and began unbolting the gates, and heaving them open with all their strength. Tormund pulled at the chain, and raised the portcullis in a scream of frozen, rusted iron.

The next three hours were a blur.

Fire filled the hall, and the company dove for cover. Dragons screamed, and corpses lurched from every corner, converging on them. They sliced at them with sword and fire, and the queen's three, ferocious dragons filled the hall, heating the frozen air, and burning the animated bodies.

After what seemed like a lifetime, and Theon still couldn't believe he was alive, the castle was filled with the thundering hooves of men on horseback, slashing and hacking at the various monsters with steel. Jon sat tall on his horse, and Tormund managed to return to him his precious sword.

Spiders ran through the halls, killing every man in their path, the others tore soldiers from their saddles, and walkers, usually above the fray of battle, joined in.

The Night's King appeared, at the back of the hall, sitting atop a giant ice, white spider. He surveyed the intense struggle of battle, and bore a placid expression.

He simply raised his hands, and soon all the fallen men rose to their feet, blood dripping from their bodies, their eyes a vacant, bright blue.

Even with all their forces used, it was still not enough, Theon saw, and with every passing minute, the opposing army merely grew, as theirs gradually began to dwindle.

We are going to lose, Theon thought.

~

Jon was gasping for air, his sword never stopping, the steel biting through the flesh of every creature he came across. He had even slain a White Walker as it had crossed his path.

Now he could see his own forces beginning to tire as theirs continued to grow. He grit his teeth, but couldn't stop the sinking feeling that they were going to lose the battle, and their efforts would only have gone to strengthen the opposing army.

Eventually his own energy began to expire, and he started to despair, the room around him filled with death and blood. Sweat and pain poured from every part of his body, and he blinked back the perspiration trickling into his eyes.

His heart gave a shudder in his his chest when he saw Stannis as he forced himself through the crowd, and up to the Night's King perched on his spider. They exchanged blows with swords, Stannis's swordsmanship even nearly mastering that of the walker.

But even Jon knew it wasn't enough.

One misstep was all it took, and single falter, a slide of steel, and the Walker's sword sliced through the King's blade, shattering the steel, and buried itself with a sickening sound into the King's heart. Blood spurted from the wound, and the king fell backwards, off his horse, to disappear in the crowd below. Jon heard a scream, and saw that the King's Hand had watched the whole thing, had been fighting his way to his king, only to be too late.

Stannis was dead, and the living were losing.

Then a new force entered the fray by the front gates. Jon looked down, and saw what looked to be an army of children running towards them, their hands glowing abnormally. Confusion erupted in Jon's mind. How could so many children be here?

But they came armed with fire in their palms, the children throwing flames from the very skin of their palms. Wights crumbled at the new force, and soon, the odds began to even.

Hope soared through Jon's heart, and he determinedly sped his horse forward, his next destination a most terrifying one.

The Night's King stared at him as he approached, his sword of ice poised at his side, waiting patiently.

Their blades met with a furious clash, and the Night's King stared at Jon's sword in surprise. It was the first time the monster had shown any emotion.

They fought furiously, Jon hacking and backslashing, his blows constantly parried. Occasionally the walker's spider would lash out, though the king preferred to fight on his own.

Their swords sang and screamed, fire danced through the halls, and Jon knew he was going to win.

There was no alternative.

'For Winterfell!' He unexpectedly cried, and he plunged Longclaw into the White Walker's heart. The king stared at Jon, silent, and crumbled into a thousand shards of ice.

Silence rang through the halls, a never ending sound. The dead fell once more, their bodies motionless. The walkers were gone.

Jon caught a flash of Theon grinning across the hall, his face stained with blood, and Jon couldn't help but return the smile.

The dragons roared and screeched, their fire licking up the walls, and the ice began to melt. For the first time in thousands of years, the castle wept.

Winter ended, and summer came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed. There will be more parts to this series, so please hang in there. I'm sorry I just got lazy at the end. I am fairly new to this site, I only basically use it in the summer when I have time, but it has been a fun experience for me. I would please like to have prompts, or anything to keep me writing, because I am super lazy, and I suffer from writer's block. As you can tell, I am a huge fan of Theon, so anything concerning him would be amazing! Please help me drag myself along with any sort of suggestion for small works, or anything. Thank you very much for reading my work!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and please stick around for more. Once again I apologize for my failed writing skills.


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